Читать книгу Twister - Genanne Walsh - Страница 15

*

Time buckles. An hour passes in what feels like a minute, a minute catches and pulls itself out of the weave, stretches into two minutes, ten, an hour, taking on a quality of endlessness, of suspension. This generally occurs during moments of great emotion. Acts of God, battles at long last begun, knife fights, first kisses, drownings.

The body knows before the mind, and begins preparing. A temperature rises a degree or two, a heartbeat quickens. When the event itself begins, the body hurls in and the mind, left behind, is becalmed, still at the crest of the wave while the flesh swoops down to the watery depths. The merchant Ward Mondragon checks his storm supplies and readies himself as best he can, and if you ask him later how long it took, the waiting, the readying, he will surely overestimate. The actions he can control will take on greater heft, while the moment he loses his grip—the struggle finally acknowledged, the boards of his store splintering—will tighten and shrink, becoming manageable in memory.

In the telling the mind rearranges, the residual feeling of suspension spurring a need to tighten the loops. The body still knows the truth, of course. Look at the shaking hands and the dark circles under the armpits.

Becalmed. Be calm.