Читать книгу The Blackest Bird - Joel Rose - Страница 7
ОглавлениеMake no mistake, the task at hand affects him deeply.
He is not entirely cold-blooded after all.
Still he proceeds, tearing long strips from the hem of her dress, tying the white lengths around her waist and neck, fashioning a crude makeshift handle by which to carry her.
As he works he cannot bring himself to look her straight in the face, can hardly bring himself to look at her at all.
The wooded path is clear, although overgrown to each side with grabbing brambles and dense vegetation.
Not far off, the river laps, its briny tang strong in his nostrils.
Across the expanse of water, he can just make out the lights of the city gleaming through the rising mist.
Somewhere in the current, he thinks he hears the dip of oars.
Overhead, there is no moon visible, but many stars, bright through the high canopy of trees.
The deed is done.
A feeling of sadness and longing comes over him that is not akin to pain, but resembles sorrow only.
He wrestles with the dead weight of her, leaving the body by the riverside while he scours the bank looking for stones and rocks of a size large enough to weigh her down.
His thoughts go to her. What have I done?
“Oh, Mary,” he murmurs to himself, may even have spoken her name out loud. “Oh, Mary.”
