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- Нил Гейман
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Rock
City
begins
as
an
ornamental
garden
on
a
mountainside
:
its
visitors
walk
a
path
that
takes
them
through
rocks
,
over
rocks
,
between
rocks
.
They
throw
corn
into
a
deer
enclosure
,
cross
a
hanging
bridge
and
peer
out
through
a
-
quarter
-
a
-
throw
binoculars
at
a
view
that
promises
them
seven
states
on
the
rare
sunny
days
when
the
air
is
perfectly
clear
.
And
from
there
,
like
a
drop
into
some
strange
hell
,
the
path
takes
the
visitors
,
millions
upon
millions
of
them
every
year
,
down
into
caverns
,
where
they
stare
at
black
-
lit
dolls
arranged
into
nursery
-
rhyme
and
fairy
-
tale
dioramas
.
When
they
leave
,
they
leave
bemused
,
uncertain
of
why
they
came
,
of
what
they
have
seen
,
of
whether
they
had
a
good
time
or
not
.
They
came
to
Lookout
Mountain
from
all
across
the
United
States
.
They
were
not
tourists
.
They
came
by
car
and
they
came
by
plane
and
by
bus
and
by
railroad
and
on
foot
.
Some
of
them
flew
—
they
flew
low
,
and
they
flew
only
in
the
dark
of
the
night
,
but
still
,
they
flew
.
Several
of
them
traveled
their
own
ways
beneath
the
earth
.
Many
of
them
hitchhiked
,
cadging
rides
from
nervous
motorists
or
from
truck
drivers
.
Those
who
had
cars
or
trucks
would
see
the
ones
who
had
not
walking
beside
the
roads
or
at
rest
stations
and
in
diners
on
the
way
,
and
,
recognizing
them
for
what
they
were
,
would
offer
them
rides
.
They
arrived
dust
-
stained
and
weary
at
the
foot
of
Lookout
Mountain
.
Looking
up
to
the
heights
of
the
tree
-
covered
slope
they
could
see
,
or
imagine
that
they
could
see
,
the
paths
and
gardens
and
streams
of
Rock
City
.
They
started
arriving
early
in
the
morning
.
A
second
wave
of
them
arrived
at
dusk
.
And
for
several
days
they
simply
kept
coming
.
A
battered
U
-
Haul
truck
pulled
up
,
disgorging
several
travel
-
weary
vila
and
rusalka
,
their
make
-
up
smudged
,
runs
in
their
stockings
,
their
expressions
heavy
-
lidded
and
tired
.
In
a
clump
of
trees
at
the
bottom
of
the
hill
,
an
elderly
wampyr
offered
a
Marlboro
to
a
huge
naked
ape
-
like
creature
covered
with
a
tangle
of
orange
fur
.
It
accepted
graciously
,
and
they
smoked
in
silence
,
side
by
side
.
A
Toyota
Previa
pulled
up
by
the
side
of
the
road
,
and
seven
Chinese
men
and
women
got
out
of
it
.
They
looked
,
above
all
,
clean
,
and
they
wore
the
kind
of
dark
suits
that
,
in
some
countries
,
are
worn
by
minor
government
officials
.
One
of
them
carried
a
clipboard
,
and
he
checked
the
inventory
as
they
unloaded
large
golf
-
bags
from
the
back
of
the
car
:
the
bags
contained
ornate
swords
with
lacquer
handles
,
and
carved
sticks
,
and
mirrors
.
The
weapons
were
distributed
,
checked
off
,
signed
for
.
A
once
-
famous
comedian
,
believed
to
have
died
in
the
1920s
,
climbed
out
of
his
rusting
car
,
and
proceeded
to
remove
his
clothing
:
his
legs
were
goat
-
legs
,
and
his
tail
was
short
and
goatish
.
Four
Mexicans
arrived
,
all
smiles
,
their
hair
black
and
very
shiny
:
they
passed
among
themselves
a
beer
bottle
which
they
kept
out
of
sight
in
a
brown
paper
bag
,
its
contents
a
bitter
mixture
of
powdered
chocolate
,
liquor
,
and
blood
.
