by Рэй Брэдбери
He could hardly remember what he wanted to say and when he said it he could hardly hear:
«Easter, oh. God, yes, Easter, a year from now!»
«Please, don't weep,» said the figure. «I will come. Easter, you say? I know your calendar. Yes. Now ―» The pale wounded hand moved in the air, softly pleading. «May I go?»
The Priest ground his teeth to keep the cries of woe from exploding forth. «Bless me, and go.»
«Like this?» said the voice.
And the hand came out to touch him ever so quietly.
«Quick!» cried the Priest, eyes shut, clenching his fists hard against his ribs to prevent his reaching out to seize. «Go before I keep you forever. Run. Run!»
The pale hand touched him a last time upon his brow. There was a soft run of naked feet.
A door opened upon stars; the door slammed.
There was a long moment when the echo of the slam made its way through the church, to every altar, into every alcove and up like a blind flight of some single bird seeking and finding release in the apse. The church stopped trembling at last, and the Priest laid his hands on himself as if to tell himself how to behave, how to breathe again; be still, be calm, stand tall….
Finally, he stumbled to the door and held to it, wanting to throw it wide, look out at the road which must be empty now, with perhaps a figure in white, far fleeing. He did not open the door.
He went about the church, glad for things to do, finishing out the ritual of locking up. It was a long way around to all the doors. It was a long way to next Easter.
He paused at the font and saw the clear water with no trace of red. He dipped his hand and cooled his brow and temples and cheeks and eyelids.
Then he went slowly up the aisle and laid himself out before the altar and let himself burst forth and really weep. He heard the sound of his sadness go up and come back in agonies from the tower where the bell hung silent.
And he wept for many reasons.
For himself.
For the Man who had been here a moment ago.
For the long time until the rock was rolled back and the tomb found empty again.
Until Simon-Called-Peter once more saw the Ghost upon the Martian shore, and himself Simon-Peter.
And most of all he wept because, oh, because, because… never in his life could he speak of this night to anyone….
FB2 document info
Document ID: d92102b2-9bd4-4022-9db8-37c0398c0b51
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 23 May 2011
Created using: FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
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SC
Source URLs :
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Document history:
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