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- Уильям Голдинг
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- Повелитель мух
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- Стр. 206/308
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The
silence
accepted
the
gift
and
awed
them
.
The
head
remained
there
,
dim-eyed
,
grinning
faintly
,
blood
blackening
between
the
teeth
.
All
at
once
they
were
running
away
,
as
fast
as
they
could
,
through
the
forest
toward
the
open
beach
.
Simon
stayed
where
he
was
,
a
small
brown
image
,
concealed
by
the
leaves
.
Even
if
he
shut
his
eyes
the
sow
's
head
still
remained
like
an
after-image
.
The
half-shut
eyes
were
dim
with
the
infinite
cynicism
of
adult
life
.
They
assured
Simon
that
everything
was
a
bad
business
.
"
I
know
that
.
"
Simon
discovered
that
he
had
spoken
aloud
.
He
opened
his
eyes
quickly
and
there
was
the
head
grinning
amusedly
in
the
strange
daylight
,
ignoring
the
flies
,
the
spilled
guts
,
even
ignoring
the
indignity
of
being
spiked
on
a
stick
.
He
looked
away
,
licking
his
dry
lips
.
A
gift
for
the
beast
.
Might
not
the
beast
come
for
it
?
The
head
,
he
thought
,
appeared
to
agree
with
him
.
Run
away
,
said
the
head
silently
,
go
back
to
the
others
.
It
was
a
joke
really
--
why
should
you
bother
?
You
were
just
wrong
,
that
's
all
.
A
little
headache
,
something
you
ate
,
perhaps
.
Go
back
,
child
,
said
the
head
silently
.
Simon
looked
up
,
feeling
the
weight
of
his
wet
hair
,
and
gazed
at
the
sky
.
Up
there
,
for
once
,
were
clouds
,
great
bulging
towers
that
sprouted
away
over
the
island
,
grey
and
cream
and
copper-colored
.
The
clouds
were
sitting
on
the
land
;
they
squeezed
,
produced
moment
by
moment
this
close
,
tormenting
heat
.
Even
the
butterflies
deserted
the
open
space
where
the
obscene
thing
grinned
and
dripped
.
Simon
lowered
his
head
,
carefully
keeping
his
eyes
shut
,
then
sheltered
them
with
his
hand
.
There
were
no
shadows
under
the
trees
but
everywhere
a
pearly
stillness
,
so
that
what
was
real
seemed
illusive
and
without
definition
.
The
pile
of
guts
was
a
black
blob
of
flies
that
buzzed
like
a
saw
.
After
a
while
these
flies
found
Simon
.
Gorged
,
they
alighted
by
his
runnels
of
sweat
and
drank
.
They
tickled
under
his
nostrils
and
played
leapfrog
on
his
thighs
.
They
were
black
and
iridescent
green
and
without
number
;
and
in
front
of
Simon
,
the
Lord
of
the
Flies
hung
on
his
stick
and
grinned
.
At
last
Simon
gave
up
and
looked
back
;
saw
the
white
teeth
and
dim
eyes
,
the
blood
--
and
his
gaze
was
held
by
that
ancient
,
inescapable
recognition
.
In
Simon
's
right
temple
,
a
pulse
began
to
beat
on
the
brain
.
Ralph
and
Piggy
lay
in
the
sand
,
gazing
at
the
fire
and
idly
flicking
pebbles
into
its
smokeless
heart
.
"
That
branch
is
gone
.
"
