Мгла
After the Storm. Norton. A Trip to Town.
Iwasafraidhemightgetpokedintheeye.OldtreeshavealwaysremindedmeoftheEntsinTolkien’swonderfulRingssaga,onlyEntsthathavegonebad.Oldtreeswanttohurtyou.Itdoesn’tmatterifyou’resnowshoeing,cross-countryskiing,orjusttakingawalkinthewoods.Oldtreeswanttohurtyou,andIthinkthey’dkillyouiftheycould.
KansasRoaditselfwasclear,butinseveralplaceswesawmorelinesdown.Aboutaquarter-milepasttheVicki-LinnCampgroundtherewasapowerpolelyingfull-lengthintheditch,heavywiressnarledarounditstoplikewildhair.
"Thatwassomestorm,"Nortonsaidinhismellifluous,courtroom-trainedvoice;buthedidn’tseemtobepontificatingnow,onlysolemn.
"Yeah,itwas."
"Look,Dad!"
HewaspointingattheremainsoftheEllitches’barn.FortwelveyearsithadbeensaggingtiredlyinTommyEllitch’sbackfield,uptoitsh*psinsunflowers,goldenrod,andLolly-come-see-me.EveryfallIwouldthinkitcouldnotlastthroughanotherwinter.Andeveryspringitwouldstillbethere.Butitwasn’tanymore.Allthatremainedwasasplinteredwreckageandaroofthathadbeenmostlystrippedofshingles.Itsnumberhadcomeup.Andforsomereasonthatechoedsolemnly,evenominously,insideme.Thestormhadcomeandsmasheditflat.
Nortondrainedhisbeer,crushedthecaninonehand,anddroppeditindifferentlytotheflooroftheScout.Billyopenedhismouthtosaysomethingandthencloseditagain-goodboy.
